Have a Little Faith
by clafount
Summary: We've all heard the official story of how Alistair Theirin was recruited to the Grey Wardens by Duncan. Find out what happened behind the scenes in this short story written for the Cheeky Monkeys of Dragon Age Secret Santa fic exchange.


_Author's note: This was written for **Kira Tamarion **for the CMDA Secret Santa fic exchange._

* * *

"I appreciate the effort, but that won't be necessary. A simple tour where I'm allowed to meet every Initiate will suffice."

The voice from the hall was rich, deep, and utterly unfamiliar to Sister Mabel. She paused with her paring knife poised above the onion she'd been cutting, listening intently.

She could hear footsteps coming from the hallway outside the kitchens, and then a well-known voice spoke. "But . . . but preparations are already underway!" Knight-Commander Galvin sputtered out. "I sent the invitations out as soon as I heard you were coming. We'll have every Initiate in the country arriving here next week. The tournament must go on!"

_Tournament_? Sister Mabel put down her knife and wiped her hands on her apron before grabbing a rag and slipping out of the kitchen.

The two men were just about to the corner of the hall that led to the officer's wing.

The stranger stood a whole head taller than the Knight-Commander. He was a handsome man, with dark skin and a beard. He sported two blades in sheaths at his back and the armor he wore was mud splattered—the man looked as if he'd been riding for weeks.

Her curiosity was inflamed now, so she trotted as fast as her short legs would allow so that she could keep up and listen in on their conversation. Their armor jangled and clanked as they walked so they didn't overhear her footsteps.

Not that she really worried about being seen. The older (and rounder) Sister Mabel got, the less visible she seemed to be to the opposite sex. That had suited her just fine. She'd never really cared for men. Boys, she didn't mind—in fact, she loved children and would have had a whole brood of them if she didn't tend to mind what the little boy ones grew into. But she did, and so a life in the monastery serving the Maker had seemed a sensible solution.

She heard the tall, foreign man sigh, and caught sight of his put upon expression as she rounded the corner. They must have heard her footsteps because they both turned back to look at her, but she merely turned to a side table and started wiping it down with the rag she held.

"Very well," the bearded man said after a beat, clearly not all that curious about her sudden appearance. "We shall have this tournament of yours, for all the Initiates."

"You won't be disappointed, Warden Commander." Knight-Commander Galvin clapped his hands together excitedly. _A bit like a child_, Sister Mabel thought. "You'll be able to pick your Warden from the winners."

The Warden Commander raised an eyebrow and looked as if he were about to object, but then seemed to think better of it and merely inclined his head before the two men ducked into an office and shut the door.

Mabel stood there in stunned silence. The Wardens were recruiting from the ranks of Templar initiates? The Knight-Commander seemed to think it was an honor and a privilege, but Sister Mabel knew the Revered Mother would not look on the matter quite so kindly.

_Still_. This tournament could prove to be a life-altering event for whomever the Warden Commander deemed worthy, and there was one particular Templar Initiate she knew who would give anything for the chance to escape his life in the Chantry.

She rushed down the hall to the practice yard, smiling to herself and saying a whispered prayer of thanks to the Maker. _I told you so!_ That's what she would tell him just as soon as she found him. _I told you to trust in the Maker, didn't I? _

She couldn't wait to see his face.

He wasn't in the training yard, and none of the Templars there could remember where they'd last seen him. So Sister Mabel hiked up her skirts and kept searching. The library proved fruitless, as did the dormitory. On a whim she checked the Chantry sanctuary, but of course he wasn't there, and the armory and the livery turned up empty as well.

With a defeated sigh she made her way back to the kitchens, figuring that at the very least she'd be able to find the lad at dinner. He never missed a meal if he could help it.

She swung the kitchen door open and let out a gasp. Of course, there he was.

The sandy-haired boy—young man now, really—stood in front of a giant steaming basin of soapy water with his wide back to her. He had his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows and was scrubbing at something in the water. "Hello, Sister Mabel," he said without turning around.

She rolled her eyes and picked up her knife. "What was it _this _time?" she asked, shaking her head as she reached for an onion. "Another prank?"

Her kitchen boy got in trouble more than any other Templar Initiate, and so the two of them spent a lot of time together, since kitchen duty was the go-to punishment from his Templar commanders.

His lack of a response made her look up. His shoulders slumped, and then he shot her a look over his shoulder.

She let out another gasp when she saw his blackened eye, and then the knife and onion were forgotten as she rushed up to him. "You were _fighting_? This isn't like you!" she screeched, as she reached up and took his chin roughly in her hand, peering at his injured eye with a _tsk._ "What on earth were you fighting about? Today is _not_ the day to annoy the Knight-Commander."

He raised an eyebrow up at her. "_Every_ day's a day for annoying the Knight-Commander. You know that."

She rolled her eyes and let go of his chin. "What was this about?"

He shrugged. "Oh, you know me. I just won't _stand_ for misinterpretations of Chantry scripture."

She crossed her arms over her ample chest and glared up at him with the most serious frown she could muster. "_Alistair_."

His cheeky grin faltered. "I don't know. It was something stupid. It doesn't matter."

She narrowed her eyes at his deflection. He was a _terrible_ liar. Stepping close so that she had to crane her neck upward to look at him, she jabbed harshly at his chest with one chubby finger. "You tell me this instant what that fight was about, Initiate!"

His eyes went wide and he actually _flushed_, and she had to choke back a laugh. That the giant lad could be so easily intimidated by someone so inconsequential was part of his charm. He held up his hands in surrender. "Alright! Alright . . . it's just . . . I didn't want to tell you." He couldn't seem to meet her eye. "They said . . . some rude things about you."

Her stomach lurched of its own accord, even as her brain tried to rationalize it all. Boys and young men could be exceedingly cruel, but still. She was old enough that she shouldn't care. "Who? Who said rude things?"

He swallowed. "Landon and Jeffrey."

_Of course_. Those two were the spoiled rotten second and third sons, respectively, of two of Ferelden's oldest noble families. They were also arrogant, stupid, and mean. She didn't wonder why they'd decided on her as a target—torturing Alistair and getting him in trouble seemed to be their favorite pastime.

She set her mouth into a grim line. "Let me guess. They said I was old and fat." He shrugged, keeping his gaze trained on the floor. "Alistair," she said, jutting out her chin. "I _am_ old and fat."

_That _got him to look at her. "That's not . . . I mean . . . they still shouldn't say that!"

"No, you're right. They shouldn't. But you don't need to go getting blackened eyes on my account." She shook her head as she stared up at him. How the boy had ever gotten the fool notion that he needed to defend every picked-upon soul in the monastery was beyond her ken, but it was yet another one of his attributes that made the man so hard to dislike. She wasn't much into overwrought displays of chivalry or gallantry, but Alistair's simple honor was genuine and laudable. "Give it time and I'm sure you'll find a more suitable damsel for you to play knight in shining armor with," she added with a wink.

She'd expected a blush, or at least a laugh at that teasing, but instead he scowled and turned back to the dishes with a jerk of his shoulder. "Yeah, _right_," he mumbled.

She blinked at his back for a few seconds, surprised at the bitterness in his tone. With a sigh she turned back to her onions.

Alistair was an uncommonly sweet boy (_young man_, she corrected herself yet again) but he had a defiant stubborn streak inside him that could frustrate the most patient and pious of saints. She wanted to get through to him, but bludgeoning him with a lecture wouldn't do any good. She'd been down that road and it just led to sullen silence.

She opted for a casual tone as she started slicing the onion. "Well, do try to stay out of trouble _for the next week_ at the very least," she said, and then fell silent, letting the curiosity she knew was winding itself inside Alistair propel him to ask her what in the Void she was talking about.

It only took a few seconds. She heard a disgruntled sigh. "Why? What's so special about next week?"

"You haven't heard? There's a tournament."

"Oh." His tone was flat and unenthused. "And why do I care about that?"

She paused for a couple of heartbeats, before answering with a shrug of her shoulder. "Oh, well, it's just that there's a Grey Warden here, looking to recruit, and the Knight-Commander's putting on the tournament for his benefit. Initiates from all over the country will be here to compete. " She said it all in a rush, using a sing-song tone and acting as if the topic was mere idle gossip.

Her lip curled into a smile at the silence coming from Alistair's direction. She glanced up to see the lad had frozen, his head tilted as if he were gazing at some point far away, instead of the brick wall. Finally, he roused and shook his head, before swiping at the pan with the wet rag in his hands. "Yeah, well, it's not like I have a shot at winning the tournament or anything. Not with Templars coming from all over Ferelden."

Her chest tightened at his deadened tone. She gave a few hard blinks before slamming the knife down on the table and whirling to face him. "You listen to me, Templar Initiate! Were you not just two weeks ago here in my kitchen, pining away for _any_ kind of chance to escape this future of yours?"

That someone so consistently cheerful could hide and nurture such an abiding misery was something about Alistair that truly perplexed Sister Mabel. He was too young and sweet to be so jaded and cynical, she had once thought. But then . . . week after week, month after month, Alistair showed up in her kitchens.

Though he got into trouble frequently, he was always polite and kind to her. Eventually she started to wonder if there was any truth to the lad's insistence that the powers that be had it out for him. She couldn't imagine why, but she also found it hard to believe such a sweet soul could run afoul of the rules quite as often as Alistair appeared to.

And then one day she found him in tears. He'd been so ashamed. A boy of twelve didn't want to be found sniffling by anyone—let alone a woman, no matter what age. But he hadn't been able to resist her compassionate mothering, and eventually she'd gotten it out of him just how desperately unhappy he was with the course his life was set to take—and how powerless he was to change it.

He'd finally confided to her about the truth of his upbringing, and she started to understand a little better the precarious place he found himself in as "just another" Templar Initiate. The other boys' resentment had started to make sense, but she never did understand why Alistair's father being king had led to him getting such poor treatment from the Templars and the Chantry.

In any case, she knew the only thing the boy could do was to trust in the Maker's grand plan and pray, but when she told him that his young, handsome face had contorted into an ugly scowl. "What's the use?" he'd muttered angrily, before turning back to the potatoes he'd been sentenced to peel all evening.

It had hurt fiercely to see her good-natured kitchen boy hid such a bitter and miserable heart. From that moment on she'd endeavored to enrich the boy's life in what little ways she could. She found him books to read that expanded beyond Chantry doctrine and history—not contraband works, by any means, but works well off the beaten path of the monastery's curriculum. She'd prepared him special treats when he was younger and such sweets were enough to wipe the frown off his face, and she'd bent a kind and compassionate ear to whatever thoughts he felt like sharing once he'd grown too old for such simple tricks to work.

She'd had other favorites before in her long career at Redcliffe's Chantry, but none had wheedled their way into her heart quite like Alistair. Maybe because he seemed to need her more than any of the others had. He needed someone, anyway. She could see that plainly enough.

Alistair looked up from the pot he was scrubbing with a frown. Apparently she'd caught him in a particularly hopeless mood. "Look, you don't really want me to get all worked up about this chance do you? I mean . . . I'm not being negative here. I know I'm a good warrior and a decent Templar, but to win this whole tournament? I don't have a chance at that."

"Well, if that's the kind of attitude you're going to maintain then you deserve the life fate's dealt you," she spit out, crossing her arms and glaring up at him.

His eyes went wide and he visibly paled. "_Maker_, Sister Mabel . . . I'm sorry . . ." He looked up at the ceiling helplessly. "You know I've gotten my hopes up before—"

"I know," she said, in a much gentler tone. "But, I've been _praying_ for you—for the Maker to show you your path." She took a few steps forward and grabbed him by the upper arms. "You have to have a little _faith—_if not in the Maker, then at least in _yourself_." He still looked doubtful, so she gave his arms a squeeze and grinned up at him. "And if you can't manage that, then have a little faith that _I_ know what I'm talking about, would you?"

He stared down at her for a few seconds before his lips started to curl into a smile and his eyes rolled upward. "Alright, alright, dear _Maker_. I'll . . . give it my best shot. That is, if I'm even allowed to compete. You know, they probably won't even let me."

Sister Mabel released him and crossed her arms to her chest, biting on her bottom lip. He had a point. If it had been any other Templar Initiate she'd have dismissed the concern as paranoia, but . . .

She recalled the odd look the Warden Commander had given Galvin when she'd spied on them in the hall. She didn't know why, but some feeling deep in her gut told her he would choose his recruit based on something less tangible than the results of a tournament. She had no real evidence for this hunch, but nevertheless, it made her optimistic for Alistair's chances.

"The Warden Commander said the tournament was open to _all_ Initiates." At Alistair's doubtful look she waved a hand. "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. You just promise me that when the opportunity presents itself, you will _take it seriously._"

His eyebrows shot up at the intense glare that accompanied her warning. "Yes, ma'am," he said, giving her a salute.

She shook her head. "Maker bless you. You certainly need it."

With a chuckle she turned back to her onion.

Alistair had been right to be concerned.

The tournament was well underway, and she saw no sign of him. No doubt one of his Templar superiors had found some imagined fault to persecute him for, sending him to the kitchens and keeping him out of the view of the Warden Commander.

Sister Mabel sat with the other Chantry sisters on a bench in front of the officer's box, where the Chantry's leadership watched over the tournament, entertaining Ferelden's Warden Commander. Duncan, she'd heard his name was, at last.

It was just so blasted _unfair_, and as she watched match after match, her teeth ground together in frustration. There had to be _something_ she could do! But, they all sat under the watchful eye of Knight-Commander Galvin and the Revered Mother. It'd be far too conspicuous for her to get up and go look for the lad now. She'd already been reprimanded once for showing Alistair _special treatment _(for sending some warm soup to his room when he'd been sick, of all things) and in spite of how much she cared for him, she would have to face the wrath of her superiors if it was too obvious that she was helping him.

She sat there, drumming her fingers on her leg and practically vibrating with the need to do _something._ The tournament was almost over! If Alistair missed his chance, she'd never forgive herself. She had to _think._

And then she had it, of course. It _should _work. It would just require her to make a bit of a fool of herself.

She had no problem with that.

"Oh!" She cried out, grabbing her feet and wailing. "Oh, the pain! Maker, save me!"

"What's wrong, Mabel?" Sister Abitha grabbed at her arm as all the nearby heads turned in her direction.

"Ohhh! It's . . . it's the gout—it makes my feet ache something awful . . . Oh, my feet! Ow, ow, ow!" Sister Abitha stood up and tried to pull her up, too. "No!" she cried. "I simply can't stand on my aching feet!"

Abitha looked around worriedly. "Mabel, we have to move you! You're making a scene and the Knight-Commander is staring."

_Oh, that's a good thing._ "The only thing that helps is my tincture. I need my tincture!"

"What tincture? Tell me what it is and I'll get it for you!" Sister Abitha hissed in response, face going red at all the attention they were getting.

"No! You'll get it wrong. It has to be brewed _just_ right and I'm the only one that knows how. Oh, _Maker's breath_!"

Her mild swear elicited gasps from all the women around her, and she had to bite her lip to keep from giggling at the loud spectacle she was making of herself, but so far it was going perfectly.

The Revered Mother's severe voice broke through the murmurs of the crowd with a loud whisper. "Sisters! What is this commotion about? You're interrupting the whole tournament."

Sister Abitha pulled on Mabel's arm again. "Just come on," she pleaded. "We'll get you your tincture once we're out of here."

"No!" she cried. "I can't move. I simply can't!"

Sister Abitha's face went even redder as she wrestled with how to deal with the loud and unruly Chantry sister Mabel had just turned into. Mabel waited a few more seconds, groaning in agony, before she gasped and clapped her hands together. "My kitchen boy! Go fetch my kitchen boy and tell him to bring me the tincture. He'll know just what to do!"

"Fine, fine!" Abitha said. "Now _hush_! I'll be right back."

She made a modicum of effort to keep groaning quietly while she waited for Sister Abitha to return with Alistair. She just hoped he was clever enough to recognize the ploy for what it was and didn't give anything away.

After a few long minutes she saw Sister Abitha emerge from the building and then Mabel burst into a smile at the sight of Alistair, striding behind her. _Good boy!_ She thought, and near clapped again in relief, but caught the curious glance of Sister Martha and remembered to start moaning loudly instead. _This was going to work. It just had to!_

"Sister Mabel!" Alistair's voice was tinged with fright. "Are you alright? I came as soon as I could! I have your tincture right here."

He passed her a metal flask, filled with some liquid that sloshed around when she grabbed it. Her eyes caught his and she could see the knowing amusement lurking behind the mask of concern.

"Oh, bless you Templar Initiate Alistair!" Mable cried, loud as her lungs would allow her.

Alistair had to bite his lips to keep from laughing as she unscrewed the vial and took a tentative sniff. She grinned up at him. _Dwarven ale. _ _Maker_, she was going to miss this boy if he got recruited.

The voice of the Knight-Commander carried down from the Officer's box. "My friend, Warden, why does your brow furrow?"

"I have seen many fine warriors of stout heart this day," Duncan's deep voice came in answer. "But here I see one Templar who has not been called to fight."

Alistair's eyes went wide as he and Sister Mabel stared at each other in wonder. She felt hope flutter in her chest.

The Knight-Commander's voice dripped with disdain. "That one is a _troublemaker_. His mouth and his attitude betray a willful streak that will only do his fellows harm. He is not worthy of the honor of fighting this day."

Alistair's expression darkened at the insult, but then, Duncan spoke up again. "I come to find the best of you, not the most polite. Let him fight."

There was a murmur of discontent that rippled down from the officer's box and spread throughout the audience, but neither Mabel nor Alistair paid much attention to it.

She beamed up at her kitchen boy, who stood there frozen in place, gaping at Mabel with a look of wonder.

"Well, you heard the man!" The Knight-Commander's sneer was practically audible. "Go on and get ready for battle, Initiate."

"Yes, ser!" Alistair gave a crisp nod, before turning back to Mabel one last time and mouthing _thank you_. She waved him on with a laugh, before seeing the odd looks she was getting from the other sisters and remembering once again to fake some pain. With a final groan she downed the flask of dwarven ale.

It burned her throat delightfully and she gave out a whoop involuntarily when she was finished. Sister Abitha settled herself next to her with a confused scowl. "Better?"

Mabel beamed. "Much better, Abitha. Much, much better."

Her heart was pounding painfully in her chest when Alistair took the field, dressed in the heavy plate of his Templar brethren. She tried to pay attention to the match, but she had little head for such matters, and since the two men wore identical armor and helmets, she soon lost track of who was who and so didn't know who she should have been cheering for anyway.

One of the Templars got the other on the ground and held his sword to his throat, and someone called out that Alistair was the winner. Alistair sheathed his sword, and then bent over to offer his fallen opponent his hand.

Instead of taking it, the other man made some disgruntled remark that didn't quite reach Mabel's ear.

Alistair, rather than taking back the hand he'd proffered, swept it out and back in front of him again, before bending into the most ridiculous, _Orlesian_-looking bow Mabel had ever seen.

A chorus of laughter rang out at his antics, and his head jerked up in surprise at the reaction. He performed the bow to the audience and earned a hearty round of applause. Mabel craned her neck around to see the Warden Commander's face.

The bearded man was laughing and smiling.

She turned back to the field, feeling like she was going to explode from both happiness and nervousness. _Oh please, let me be right about his chances._

There wasn't much left of the tournament, but Alistair's late addition meant he appeared in almost every match. He put up a good showing—definitely a performance to be proud of. And after each of his many wins, he offered his hand to his fallen opponent.

A few did not learn the lesson from the first, and refused the hand he offered. To these, he pantomimed increasingly elaborate bows and flourishes, and each time the laughter from the crowd grew more raucous. Mable gave herself a crick in the neck from turning around to judge Duncan's reaction so often.

Each time, the Warden Commander smiled broadly and laughed.

Still, impressive as Alistair was, he wasn't quite good enough to win any particular category outright—other than perhaps the audience favorite. By the end of the tournament, the winners of the various categories were announced: Ser Kalvin. Ser Talrew. Ser Erhyn.

Mabel twisted her hands in her lap and tried to peer across the field to where Alistair stood, hoping against hope that by some miracle . . . things could still turn out alright for him.

If she'd gotten his hopes up for nothing, she'd never forgive herself.

The applause died down and silence made its slow descent over the crowd. Every head turned to look up to the officer's box, where the Warden Commander and the Knight-Commander had risen.

It was Duncan who addressed the crowd. "Thank you for your hospitality and kindness in hosting this tournament so that I might find a recruit worthy to bear the title of Grey Warden." He turned toward the Knight-Commander. "I have made my decision."

A fawning grin appeared on the Knight-Commander's face—he seemed oblivious to the glowering Revered Mother behind him. "Very well. Who shall join the ranks of the Grey Wardens of Ferelden?"

"I will recruit Alistair."

A whooping scream rang out and all heads turned toward Mabel. She clapped her hands over her mouth and turned beet red, but soon her outburst was forgotten as a murmur of excited voices drowned out the heartbeat that was thundering in her ears.

They'd done it. The Maker had heard her prayers at last.

Duncan's decision caused quite a stir among the Chantry hierarchy, and Mabel heard whispers that the Grand Cleric would be asked to intervene, but in spite of everyone's best efforts, Duncan left with Alistair that very night.

Alistair caught her in the hallway outside the kitchen before he left, still breathless and sweaty from the exertion of the tournament. "Sister Mabel! I can't believe it. I can't believe this happened!" He picked her up and twirled her in a tight embrace.

The dwarven ale and the spinning combined to make her light-headed. "Put me down, you fool of a Templar!" she cried out, though she couldn't keep from laughing.

He set her down and grinned down at her, still holding her in hug. "_Ex_-Templar, now. Thanks to you."

That ale must've made her face flush, because Mabel's cheeks grew hot and tears warmed her eyes. "I'm so happy for you!" She squeezed him in another tight hug, before releasing him and pointing a chubby finger up at him. "I _told_ you so! I _told_you to trust in the Maker, didn't I?"

The unmasked affection and joy in Alistair's eyes warmed her heart. "Yeah, you did but . . . you know what?" He leaned forward and whispered in a conspiratorial tone. "I think I have better luck trusting in Sister Mabel."

Mabel's throat started to constrict—the ale must've dried it out. "I'm going to miss you."

"I'll miss you too."

"You better not! You better be too busy rescuing damsels and having adventures to miss a fat, old Chantry sister like me."

He laughed at that, and then bent down and gave her a kiss on the cheek, before squeezing her one last time and racing down the hall after Duncan.

Brother Tevius's official version of Alistair's recruitment did not include any references to any tincture, kitchen boy, or rotund Sister Mabel. She had heard the brother ask others who had been there, trying to pin down the exact details for his records, but she didn't dare confess her role in the whole thing, lest her Chantry supervisors catch wind of her involvement and seek out some kind of punishment.

Besides, she rather preferred being invisible. She didn't need to be remembered in the history books for her part in seeing that Alistair Theirin escaped his fate in the Chantry. She contented herself in the knowledge that at least _he_ would never forget how she'd helped him over all those years, or how she had believed in him when no one else did.

And she was right.


End file.
